


…But I'm Only Dancing

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-08
Updated: 2007-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was struck dumb by the brilliant articles <a href="http://giddy-london.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://giddy-london.livejournal.com/"><b>giddy_london</b></a> passed along to me, suggesting a Sean that was in some ways nothing like I'd imagined him and in other ways exactly as I had.  So this emerged from the ashes that was me.  I know the tense shift might be a <i>bit</i> confusing to some, but the idea is that the beginning and the end are "present" (present being autumn 2000) and the middle is all flashback.  I hope that's clear enough to the reader, but I don't really want to change it.  Just call me stubborn in my old age ;-)  Oh, and suspend disbelief because I realised after writing the last scene that Sean was actually filming in Toronto at that time.  But that's why we call it fiction, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	…But I'm Only Dancing

"You should have seen the hobbits tonight," Viggo comments, smiling around the mouth of his beer bottle. "It was giving me fond memories of the eighties."

"Sorry?" Sean raises an eyebrow, pushing himself up onto the island in the centre of Viggo's kitchen and just barely avoiding conking himself out on one of the hanging copper pots.

"They're celebrating Halloween a bit late, or there was a dare or something. I was fuzzy on the details. But Elijah was wearing full-out leather gear and Billy's hair was blue."

"_Blue?_" Sean nearly chokes on his beer. Billy's nearly as old as they are, sure, and could've technically been into the whole scene in the eighties, but it's still strange to think about.

Viggo smiles again, and shakes his head. "Like I said, you should've seen it."

"Christ." Sean laughs, a memory clearing up around the edges in the back of his mind, and he catches Viggo's eye and grins. "Did I ever tell you I were in a band, like? Back in the day… used to want to be Bowie but I could never pull it off."

Viggo's eyebrows go up, but he doesn't seem surprised, somehow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. We were bloody awful," Sean admits, and his mouth is crinkling around the corners to match the laughter in his eyes.

"Well I married a punk rocker."

"Debra and I were married in the eighties," Sean says, his heel thumping against the cabinet. "You should've seen her perm. It were bloody well impressive."

"Oh, God," Viggo moans. "Christine had _bangs_, God, out to here…"

"Y'what?" Sean gives Viggo a quizzical look, and then he realises.

"Oh, right, fringe. You call it fringe."

"_Oh._" Sean laughs and shakes his head again. "May those hairstyles rest very, very firmly in peace."

Viggo raises his beer and reaches out to clink it to Sean's, pushing off from the counter and then leaning back again as he drinks. "Amen to that." He gives Sean a small smile after a moment, and then he asks. "Do you miss it?"

Sean frowns. "Being married?"

"Hell, no," Viggo replies easily. "That whole scene. Glam… leather…"

"Oh. Oh…" Sean thinks a moment, and then nods. "Yeah, I do. Sometimes. Damn, some of the blokes I had a bit of a hard on for back then…"

Viggo again looks surprised, but not really. Sean grins, and Viggo nods. He's been waiting for the admission without waiting for it, but he doesn't have to act. Not yet. Not tonight.

 

When Sean first arrived on set, he was a bit of a surprise to most of the people working on the project. Nicer than they expected, for one, and quieter. Those who got to know him were surprised when he declined evenings at the pub to spend some time at home with a glass of wine, going over his script or finishing a novel that he'd not been able to put down. They didn't expect him to be quite so intelligent, or to find him idly sketching in a corner during one extended pause in filming. That seemed like a Viggo thing. What happened to the "bit of rough?"

Viggo himself didn't really react. Sean came to his house for the first time a week in, when the hobbits were out at the pub and both men had declined to join, asking sheepishly if Viggo might be able to lend him some charcoals for an idea he'd gotten. He was a bit shit at drawing these days, he explained, out of practice, but he enjoyed it. Meditative. Viggo grinned in that kind of comfortable, lopsided way, and stepped aside to let Sean in.

"You've a piano," Sean noted, looking a bit surprised, pausing halfway through the living room as if unsure about whether to go forward, but not really wanting to turn back.

"It was here when I got here," Viggo said simply, his voice not quite quiet enough that Sean had to strain to hear, but almost. Viggo stood closer behind him than most men would, but he didn't mind. He liked that Viggo wasn't afraid of him, didn't seem to react at all, really.

"Can I…"

He turned slightly, and Viggo waved a hand in the direction of the instrument. Sean nodded and sat on the wooden bench, flipping the lid up and running his fingers over the ivory keys gently, reverently.

"She's a beautiful instrument," he commented, half to himself, running his hand now over the top, feeling the wood beneath the pads of his fingers. The craftsmanship was indeed good, and it might have been a hundred years old. Viggo smiled and leaned against the wall, his weight on one shoulder, the stem of a wine glass between his fingers.

"How long have you played?"

Sean shrugged, not turning to face him, still just feeling out the keys under his fingers, depressing and releasing the sustain pedal to test its weight. A little sticky, but still in good condition. "Since I were young. Knew an old bugger who'd give lessons for 50p. To girls, mostly, but I liked it."

Viggo smiled, watching the hesitant tension of Sean's body, the way he stroked the flats and naturals as if anxious to play, but at the same time afraid. Viggo nodded and moved away wordlessly, to the kitchen, giving Sean some privacy. After a few minutes, his glass refreshed and another one poured for when Sean was finished, he heard the first tentative notes. _Für Elise_, he recognised, and smiled, imagining Sean as a boy learning the simple melody for the first time.

After a moment, the tempo increased, Sean's fingers flying over the keyboard with a growing confidence and a bit more character, the trademark rolls of the song almost jazzy. After a few more bars, he shifted seamlessly into the famous _adagio_ movement of _Moonlight Sonata_, slower but more emotional, Sean's own style audible in the variations he chose in volume and the way he used the pedals. It wasn't the most complicated piece in the world, but Viggo found his chest tightening in a way that normally made him rush to the easel or a camera. This time, though, Viggo didn't walk away.

Taking a seat at the kitchen table, Viggo closed his eyes and hummed quietly, in a husky tenor with occasional voiced notes, as Sean transitioned into a slightly less well-known piece by Chopin, one that Viggo recognised from his father's obsession with classical tapes when he himself was a teenager.

It was an hour later when Sean finally came into the kitchen, and the red wine tasted perfect on his dry tongue. They shared a smile.

 

The storms picked up as the spring wore on. Though half the main cast had what Dom liked to refer to as a near-death experience in a DC-10 to Queenstown, and Sean and Orli spent several days stuck between damaged roads after a mudslide, by the middle of November everyone was safely in Queenstown, spending most of their time waiting for it to stop raining.

When Viggo had worn his pencils down to stubs, he came to Sean's hotel room. They sketched together in silence for hours, sitting in the grand lobby, looking out the window as the rain fell in sheets, pencils scratching in an alternately harmonious and discordant cadence on the page. Hobbits passed by, crew came in and out, but Viggo and Sean were comfortable, and inspiration was kind to them that afternoon. In the following weeks, the two men found themselves spending more and more time together, and less with the rest of the cast, but no one really commented.

The week before Christmas holiday started, the principals were given two days off in Wellington to pack up before finishing shooting on the South Island, and Sean found himself feeling strangely melancholy as he scooped three months of memories and more practical items into boxes. When the phone rang, he almost didn't bother picking up, but that seemed a bit too childish.

"Bean speaking."

"Thank God you've stopped answering your phone 'Mr. Bean,'" the even voice on the other end commented.

Sean laughed and cradled the phone against his shoulder as he finished wrapping a photo frame in newsprint. "Daft wanker. What're you up to?"

"Listening to a brilliant old jazz record and having a glass of wine. Join me? I just finished developing some photographs I'd like you to have a look at."

"Yeah? All right. I'm packing, but it'll keep."

"Just for a few hours. It's a good Cabernet. French."

Sean snorted. "Wrong way to sell me on it, mate. Do you still have some Newcastle in the fridge?"

"Uncultured freak."

Sean smiled. "Well, do you?'

"Picked up another case today," Viggo answered, and Sean could hear the smile in his tone.

"Whole case? You realise I'm not coming back till winter, right?"

"I've grown to like the taste."

Sean bit his lip as he grinned, an old habit he thought he'd broken himself of. "All right. Be round in a sec."

 

Sean didn't bother to ring the bell, which was a good thing as Viggo wouldn't have bothered to answer it. When he came inside, Viggo was sitting on the sofa, head back, eyes closed, thoroughly entranced by the record he was listening to, wine glass held loosely in his hand. Sean smiled and closed the door behind himself (Viggo never bothered to lock up in Wellington) and retrieved a Newcastle from the fridge, popping it open before he returned to the living room and silently took a seat next to Viggo.

He sat closer to Viggo than he normally did with other men, but he didn't need to think about it. He drank three quarters of the bottle before he spoke, feet up on the coffee table, enjoying the comfortable silence. When Viggo finally opened his eyes, he rolled his head to the side with a lazy grin and reached his glass out to clink it with Sean's bottle.

"Cheers."

Sean gave Viggo a look, and the other man burst into quiet laughter.

"Pissed already, then?" Sean asked needlessly, smiling as he finished off the bottle and squeezed Viggo's knee before standing to get another.

"Pleasantly drunk," Viggo corrected, his voice quiet and sure in a way that tended to cause physiological reactions in Sean that he didn't always expect. This time, it was a slightly quickening of the pulse and a warmth around his ears, which he shrugged off because he was used to it by now.

When he returned, he noticed the blue folder on the table, a few photos spilling out, and opened it once the beer was safely set down far enough away, going through the photos one by one and making soft noises at some, pleasure or surprise, seeing the film shoot through Viggo's eyes.

Some of the photos would eventually become famous, Orli becoming Legolas and John in his dwarf gear. Others would never see the world from the page of a coffee table book or a magazine reprint—a close-up of Sean's hand, his Rolex just barely visible in the corner of the shot, was his favourite.

"When was this?" he asked absently, turning the photo slightly in his hand as if comparing the image to the 3-D version.

"On set. You were having a coffee and talking to Ian," Viggo replied, leaning in to look at the photo over Sean's shoulder and then reaching out to brush the fine hairs on Sean's real wrist. The photo was not of the hand wrapped around the coffee cup, but Sean's left, resting loosely on his thigh. The thumb was most prominent, fingers wrapped and disappearing out of the shot, curved around muscle obscured by the leather of his costume.

Viggo's chin rested on Sean's shoulder, and Sean had the thought in the back of his mind that Viggo wasn't really looking at the photograph anymore, but he didn't shrug him off.

"What were you talking about that day? Do you remember?" Viggo asked, sounding intensely curious. Sean thought back, and smiled when he remembered the conversation.

"_The Picture of Dorian Gray_," he replied. "It's my favourite Wilde."

Viggo lifted his chin slightly and gave Sean a curious look. When he turned, he realised how close they were and how disarming Viggo's eyes were at this range, but he didn't look away. "Not _Earnest_?"

"No. _Dorian Gray_ is more honest, like. So many layers. I've read it five or six times, and I keep finding things. I like the way Wilde does more with that book," Sean explained. "It's more than you'd expect from him, from his plays. It seems truer somehow."

Viggo smiled and reached up to brush Sean's bearded cheek, a gesture he would never attempt sober. "I'll have to read it again."

Sean nodded and coughed lightly. "Might do, myself. Would like that."

Viggo smiled and rested on Sean's shoulder again, the top of his head this time pressed into the crook of Sean's neck. "I'll call you in England. Read to you over the phone."

Sean smiled. He didn't think Viggo would, but you never knew with Viggo. "Would like that, too."

Viggo grinned. "Okay. I will."

 

At the airport, Sean was visibly on edge. Everyone was flying out in groups; New Line had arranged it that way, and so everyone going through London was headed out in one big block on the same flight, with another group going to LAX a few hours later. It was nice in a way, but less so in others, as part of Sean just wanted to be alone when he left this place, time alone to mourn and be terrified and get it over with all at once.

Viggo came to the airport before the other Americans, and they sat together at the far end of the first class lounge, knees touching, facing the wall. Sean cradled a drink in one hand, and Viggo played with a thread on the inseam of his jeans.

"Got to deal with the divorce when I get there. Got to see Abby again."

Viggo nodded, sympathetically. "And the kids?"

"Well, will see them too, yeah, but Molly's going through a phase. Doesn't like me gone."

"Will be good to be home for Christmas then."

"And away again in January," Sean spat back, bitterly. After a moment, he sighed and laid a hand on Viggo's leg. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it for you."

"I know you didn't," Viggo agreed, his voice soft and unaffected as always. A small part of Sean wondered what it would take to rattle Viggo, to _make_ his voice change tone and timbre, but that question was for another time. Pre-boarding was beginning.

"Will you ring me when you get to LA?"

Viggo nodded. "You won't be home yet, though."

"Leave a message. I'll hear it when I get in."

Viggo smiled. "All right."

"And keep me updated, all right? When you get back here, I mean. Let me know how everyone is."

Viggo smiled again, a bit teasingly this time, and turned to Sean. "You have their numbers too, you know."

"I know," Sean agreed, and he wasn't embarrassed by it, "but I'd rather talk to you."

Viggo grinned widely, and he grabbed Sean's head with both hands, his grip firm. For a moment Sean was afraid Viggo was about to kiss him, but then he simply pressed their heads together, for a long, lingering moment, and then let Sean go again. Sean was almost disappointed.

"This is the final call for first-class passengers on BA Flight 94838 to London Gatwick. Passengers holding first-class tickets for this flight, please proceed to gate A5 at this time."

"Well, I guess that's you," Viggo said softly, catching Sean's eye.

He nodded, slowly. "I guess it is. See you in August?"

"August. Right." Viggo frowned for a moment, and Sean bit his lip.

"Maybe sooner, you know… if I don't have work…"

Viggo smiled. "You'll have work. I'll see you when I see you."

"All right, Vig. You know… thanks."

Viggo smiled again, kissed Sean's cheek, and didn't ask 'for what?'

It wasn't until Sean made to stand that he realised his hand had never drifted from Viggo's leg. His smile as he gave Viggo one last bear hug and followed the rest of the group to the gate was one of uncertainty. It was time to plunge again. Into the void.

 

"Have you started yet?"

"Pardon?"

"Dorian. Have you started yet?"

Sean grinned and twisted the cord of his house phone between his fingers. "No."

"The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn." Sean sighed and smiled, leaning back against the kitchen door. His fingers toyed with the lace curtains on its small windowpane, and Viggo's voice drew him back to New Zealand one rolling syllable at a time.

"From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion.

"The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

"In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

"As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skillfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake."

Sean sighed, listening to the steady rise and fall of Viggo's voice, the tone that despite its limited variance in expression made him feel at home, and he, like Basil, feared he might awake.

 

"I have a project for you."

Sean stared at Viggo—he had only just arrived at the hotel that was to be his home for the next month a few hours ago, and already his friend was standing in the doorway, declaring a project.

"Erm… what kind of project?"

Viggo grinned and crushed Sean in a hug with so much momentum he went reeling against the opposite wall, laughing as he gingerly wrapped his arms around Viggo's waist and hugged back, breathing in deeply and feeling the memories come flooding predictably back with Viggo's scent.

"It's a bit of a landscaping project," Viggo replied when he pulled away, as if nothing were unusual, taking a seat at the foot of the king-sized bed that formed the centrepiece of the room, ignoring the sofa.

Sean raised an eyebrow. "Landscaping? Where?"

"Well you said you have some gardening experience."

"Yes…"

"My yard's kind of shitty, and I've been wanting to do something to it. And you know, with spring coming… I thought maybe you could pick some plants for me, tell me how to plant them. You probably won't still be here when it's time, but I thought you could. And maybe build me some birdhouses… you said you'd done it before, you know, and I'd like some birds… I went ahead and bought you some wood and things, and Pete's lent me a toolbox; they're all at my house…"

Sean grinned at Viggo, rambling on almost nervously, and reached out with a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "Viggo. It's fine. I'll do it. Would be happy to, actually. Though you do realise you're leaving in Decemeber?"

"Yeah," Viggo agreed with a shrug and a sad smile. "But I want the house to have something to remember me by."

Sean stared at Viggo for a long moment, and then shook his head. "Jesus, I've missed you…"

 

"You know what would be perfect for you?" Sean mused, scribbling in a notebook as he sat across the kitchen table from Viggo, the remains of a shrimp and pasta dish sitting in a cheery yellow stoneware plate in front of him. "_Fuschia procumbens._" The Latin rolled easily off his tongue, and Viggo smiled as he stood and took their plates to the sink.

"What's that one?"

"Creeping fuschia. It's a flowering vine, good groundcover. It has berries and these amazing purple and yellow flowers. Very exotic."

Viggo smiled. "You think I'm exotic?"

"I think you're a right mad bugger," Sean replied without missing a beat. "And _leptinella serulata_ along the side…"

"Have you researched this?" Viggo asked after a moment, taking his seat again and pouring them each more wine.

Sean blushed slightly. "A bit. Just brushing up, at the public library. I like to read up on the natives."

Viggo nodded. "What about ferns? I'd like some ferns."

"Ponga would be nice, but it wouldn't grow nearly as large as it'll eventually be before you leave."

"Well that's okay. What else?"

"Some tangle broom, I think, and parataniwha. Did you know there's a plant called bachelor's button? _Cotula coronopifolia_."

"Bachelor _and_ it has 'Corona' in it. Well that's settled."

Sean rolled his eyes. "You're sure you're up to planting all this?"

"I'm sure. Besides… you're not doing any projects right away when you finish here, are you?"

"Well, no… not until the end of the year in Toronto."

Viggo grinned.

"Well… I'll think about it," Sean conceded. Viggo kept grinning.

"You do that."

 

It's November now, and Sean hasn't left. He doesn't have a good reason for it, and if people ask, he just shrugs and says he has nowhere else to be. Being in New Zealand is blissful, though; he misses his daughters but it is also time for himself, time to be _Sean._ New Line isn't footing the hotel bill, anymore, and so he's moved into Viggo's guest room. They work with each other, around each other, surprisingly well—surprisingly, at least to everyone else. Sean and Viggo never had any doubts that it would work.

Sean is playing a complicated piece by Rachmaninoff—he's more confident, now—and there is a cigarette dangling between his lips, which he manages to smoke with no hands. He doesn't hear the footsteps on the stairs, and it isn't until Viggo stops, in front of the piano, that his hands stall completely, his foot thunking down on the sustain pedal so that the last few notes are drawn out, indefinitely, in the air.

Viggo leans forward, smirks, and plucks the cigarette from Sean's mouth, which looks to be in serious danger of falling open. He takes a long drag, licks his lips, and replaces it.

"So you were in a band, did you say?"

Sean stares for a moment and then nods, slowly.

"What did you play?"

"Guitar," Sean manages, and Viggo grins, positively evil.

"Perfect. I used to _love_ boys who played guitar."

Viggo walks over to the record player, and Sean's eyes drift immediately to his arse. He fills out the leather quite nicely, on both ends, and the black t-shirt is tight, emphasising the curve of his biceps and his healthy tan. The words "Ziggy Stardust" are written on Viggo's chest in silver glitter, and his hair is pulled back into a ponytail and dyed black. There is an earring in his right ear, which Sean assumes is a fake, but still. Viggo is wearing eyeliner, and shimmery powder dusted high on his cheekbones. His lips are stained dark blue. Sean never went that far himself, even in the eighties, but God, it's a turn on.

Viggo moves the needle forward a little, smiles when he finds what he's looking for. Sean finally lifts his foot from the pedal and swivels around on the bench. Ash is dropping from the end of his cigarette onto the floor, and he never liked a slob, so he taps out the ashes into the tray sitting on the piano and then puts the cigarette itself out on his tongue. Viggo falters a bit in his movements, walking back to Sean, and Sean grins. Always was a useful trick, that.

"…Joe is awful strong, you bet your life he's putting us on…"

Viggo regains his focus, strides forward, and then he's standing over Sean, singing the lyrics under his breath. "Oh lordy, oh lordy, you know I need some loving…" And then Viggo slides, just _slides_ down Sean's body, his hand quickly trailing from throat to crotch, and he's grabbing Sean's hand, perfectly in time, pressing it to his own groin as he squeals "touch me!" along with David Bowie.

Sean grins at Viggo's brazenness and twists his hand, catches Viggo's wrist, tugs him back down to lean awkwardly forward between Sean's legs and growls in Viggo's ear.

"Do you know what I used to do, to boys like you?"

Viggo shivers and stops in Sean's arms; he shakes his head and Sean pushes him down, gently but firmly, to his knees. He opens his fly calmly, and Viggo grins, not objecting. He gives Sean's cock a nice long, steady lick, base in his fist, and Sean groans, because he doesn't remember it being this bloody _good_.

And then Viggo reaches up, tugs Sean's head down instead, and he licks and sucks Sean's bottom lip between his teeth, and he kisses until Sean is gasping for air, and it was definitely never _this_ good.

Sean reaches down, suddenly, no longer content with playing, with just letting Viggo do as he wants with him, because this isn't the eighties, this isn't anonymous, and Sean _wants_ Viggo. He wants to touch and kiss and find all the spots that make Viggo moan, and this is the year 2000 and Sean isn't married anymore, doesn't have to be home by a certain hour. Sean and Viggo are equals, they could potentially be _lovers_, and Sean's entire body convulses in a frisson of pleasure at the thought.

Viggo pauses his exploration of Sean's mouth to grin, and by now Sean is on his knees, too, on the wood floor next to him. They are technically too old for this, but Sean doesn't give a shit. He pushes Viggo gently to the floor by the shoulders and straddles his hips and smiles broadly before taking a long lick from the curve of Viggo's neck.

"Salty," he mutters, and Viggo laughs long and loud, tugs Sean to his chest and lets him feel the jubilant vibrations.

"I haven't kissed anyone in ages," Viggo admits, his eyes still laughing but at the same time serious. Sean runs his tongue over his own teeth and tastes the Corona Viggo must have been drinking.

"That's not true," Sean points out with a smile. "You kissed Dom that one time."

Viggo rolls his eyes. "Not like _this_," he argues. "I'd feel like a paedophile."

Sean laughs and shakes his head. "You're not too old for Dom."

Viggo rolls his eyes to the ceiling, his fingers absently playing along the skin of Sean's lower back under his t-shirt. "Can we not talk about Dom right now?" he suggests, and Sean couldn't agree more.

"What do you like?" he asks quietly after a moment, a moment of just lying on the floor together and synchronising their breathing.

Viggo smiles and scratches Sean's scalp lightly with his fingernails. "What any man likes, I suppose." He sounds slightly uncomfortable, though, and Sean is determined to get a better answer.

"What's your favourite spot to be kissed?" he asks, and then adds, grinning, "lips and cock don't count."

Viggo laughs and considers the question for a long moment. "I like… right here," he admits, pushing the t-shirt aside a little to reveal his collarbone and pointing with one long finger. Sean smiles and bends his head down, sucks long and slow and then pulls back, blowing cool air over the moist skin. Viggo shivers, and his eyes are closed. Sean smiles.

"Tell me where else."

"Here," Viggo responds, quicker this time, pointing through his shirt to a spot not quite on his nipple, but just underneath. Sean grins and slides down a little more on the floor, pushes the t-shirt up and laves tanned skin with his tongue, then presses the softest of kisses to the spot.

"And…?"

Viggo groans and brushes a hand over his inner thigh. Sean likes this one, and he doesn't even bother to remove Viggo's trousers first, just shimmies down a little further and puts his weight on his elbows, lowers his open mouth to the fleshy curve of muscle and bites down through leather. Viggo yelps and tugs at Sean's hair, and his breathing is coming up noticeably shorter when Sean presses with his tongue in hard, firm swipes, tasting the musk of leather and smelling just the slight edge of sweat and something else underneath.

"What would it take, I wonder," Sean murmurs, kissing now up the fine trail of hair to Viggo's navel, "to make you moan?" He ends the question on an inquisitive raised inflection, casts his eyes up to Viggo again. Viggo's own eyes are dark and seductive, no question now that his calm has been considerably rocked. Sean feels extremely pleased with himself.

"Kiss me," Viggo answers, his eyes challenging as he cups his palm not over his cock but lower, between his thighs, "here."

Sean grins, because this is something he can do, here is something with which he can surprise Viggo. He doesn't look away as he unbuttons the fly and lowers the zip, pushes the trousers down with both hands. Viggo raises his hips helpfully and there is an ungraceful little squirming flail of legs as he finally kicks the trousers off. He is wearing black briefs, the bulge in them almost enough to pop out, and Sean feels an intense surge of need as he lowers his head, eyes still locked on Viggo's, and presses his mouth to the cotton, Viggo's erection pressed against his nose. He mouths Viggo's balls, presses his tongue to them through the fabric, which is already warm and moist. Viggo makes a noise Sean has never heard before, a keening sort of a whimper, and he can't keep eye contact anymore; his head tilts back and his neck arches in a perfect line.

"Want you," Sean murmurs against the dense globes of flesh, tonguing them experimentally, tracing lines and feeling how Viggo's bollocks shift and retreat. He sucks lightly on one, pulling the skin and fabric through his teeth, and Viggo lets out a stuttering moan. "_Always_," Sean murmurs now, and it is the biggest admission he has made in years, so utterly personal.

Viggo looks down at Sean, and though he is shivering and shaking and every time he opens his mouth an obscene noise threatens to escape, he grabs Sean's head in both his hands and whispers, his voice full of gravity, "_yes_."

That is all the "I love you" Sean could ever need, all the stability he has it left in him to desire, and he is enthusiastic as he bites again at Viggo's bare thigh, trails his teeth down to a calf, and comes back up with Viggo's underwear in his hands, tugged down enough to expose him and bring a dangerously musky scent wafting up to Sean's nostrils.

He reaches up and rubs a thumb over Viggo's bottom lip, harsh enough to shift the flesh to the side for a moment before it slips back to its natural position, and then he cups Viggo's jaw and takes Viggo's prick into his mouth. Viggo's eyes, lined with kohl, are harsh and hungry, and in the space of half an hour, they are both seeing stars.

Later that week, Sean plays Rachmaninoff again, and Viggo smiles. He lights a cigarette and slides it between Sean's lips, and his hand traces the length of Sean's thigh as he plays. Sean's fingers falter, just a bit. No one else understands. No one else has to.


End file.
